


like this

by payoffpitch



Category: Baseball RPF
Genre: (?), Character Study, Gen, Trans Male Character, Transphobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-10
Updated: 2019-02-10
Packaged: 2019-10-25 10:30:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17723477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/payoffpitch/pseuds/payoffpitch
Summary: He takes another swing. Watches the ball sail over the fence. Not good enough. He squares up to try again. He needs to work on that timing. He takes another swing. He’s getting better. But he’s not good enough. Not yet.He makes an error one night - just a weird hop, charged too fast, bobbled and shuffled and not in time to first. A lazy pop fly from the next batter ends the inning, but Nolan knows it should have been over the first time. He knows what he did wrong, and what he needs to fix. The inning is over. That didn’t even matter. He tries to tell himself it doesn’t even matter, now. But he hates to let them down.(“Hey!” Someone had shouted. “Twenty eight!” Sharp. Faceless. “You look like a girl! Play like one, too!”The next night, the breeze is cool on Nolan’s neck, his hair freshly cropped to his skull.)





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With every swing, every rep, every lap, he pictures the muscles beneath his skin thickening. He imagines his shoulders broader. His legs sturdier. And he is stronger. Always stronger. He can feel every minuscule tear in the fibers, can feel them repair and grow and he will be stronger. 

So he takes another swing. Watches the ball sail over the fence. Not good enough. He squares up to try again. He needs to work on that timing. He takes another swing. He’s getting better. But he’s not good enough. Not yet.

He makes an error one night - just a weird hop, charged too fast, bobbled and shuffled and not in time to first. A lazy pop fly from the next batter ends the inning, but Nolan knows it should have been over the first time. He knows what he did wrong, and what he needs to fix. The inning is over. That didn’t even matter. He tries to tell himself it doesn’t even matter, now. But he hates to let them down.

(“Hey!” Someone had shouted. “Twenty eight!” Sharp. Faceless. “You look like a girl! Play like one, too!”

The next night, the breeze is cool on Nolan’s neck, his hair freshly cropped to his skull.)

——

Nolan has worked out a system. He’s a private guy, and when he’s you’re as good as he is, the other guys don’t really question when you shower alone. It’s not weird anymore. It’s just how it is.

How it was. Until Daniel _fucking_ Murphy showed up. Does anyone even want him on the team? Nolan’s not sure.

Usually he’s fine, sure. He’s polite. A decent ball player. (Except for the fact that there are only half a dozen guys that could be in his place - waiting to take his place!-  that, Nolan supposes, will respect Nolan as a person. But it’s fine. He’s dealt with this before.)

Nolan walks into the clubhouse one night after a game. Guys are wandering in from the showers, hanging out a bit before eventually heading out. Nolan hasn’t showered yet; he was going to wait until he got to the hotel.

“I just - I mean, I’ll call people what they want to be called, but-“ and Nolan doesn’t even hear the rest of his sentence. He's heard this before.

His _li_ _festyle_.

Nolan’s gotten pretty good at brushing off the blatant stuff. Guys in college trying to get a reaction out of him, or, a little more difficult, teammates spewing downright hate. That’s just ignorance, people repeating what they’ve heard and not really thinking about it.

He’s not any less afraid of people - of situations - like that, but he’s learned how to deal with it.

But this? Obviously Murphy’s thought about this before. He must think people like Nolan don’t really exist. He’s an issue, not a ball player. A statistic, not a teammate. Not even a real person. Not a real person at all. It makes Nolan feel sick, the hypocrisy of it all.

“...I just don’t get how… these people think they’re really- I mean, you can’t change-“

Someone else tells him to leave it alone, and Nolan breathes a sigh of relief. But apparently, Murphy needs to add one more thing.

“I just - I don’t get why they want us normal guys to change everything for them! I mean-”

“Can you just shut up?” Nolan says, restrained. “We don’t need to have this… discussion now.” He can’t tell if he wants to scream or cry.

He’s so tired of being an _issue._ Another wave of nausea flashes through his body. He wants to go home.

_“_ I’m just saying! If these people are going to choose to live like this, why make the rest of us-“

Again, a few guys try to say something to diffuse the situation. Only a few guys know about Nolan. One or two accidentally found out; one or two others - Nolan was going to go insane, all alone. But right now? They just don’t want the conflict.

“You think they choose?” Nolan says, and still a few conversations are buzzing around the room. As Nolan raises his voice, a silence falls over the scattered groups. “You think someone would choose to live like this?” There’s an edge to his voice he barely recognizes himself.

 Murphy tries to defend himself, not really understanding Nolan’s words, not yet: “I’ll respect people! I’m just saying - I mean, it’s not that big of a deal, anyway, but-“

For Nolan, though, he’s already said too much. It’s that word, _respect_ . If that’s what Murphy’s definition of _respect_ is, Nolan feels bad for his friends. A few guys have almost made the connection, brows furrowed or mouths slightly open as they think about what Nolan’s saying.

Again: “You think people would choose this? Do you think it’s _fun?_ ”

He clenches his jaw, choosing his words carefully. “You’re threatened. You can’t understand how a guy who doesn’t even have a fucking dick can be more of a man than you.”

Murphy visibly shrinks a little, offers a weak “Hey, man, I didn’t mean - I just think - I’m sorry if I - if someone you know is - if -“

“Is that it?” Nolan says, voice cruel and controlled, almost a full shout now. A pause. “You think of us- of people - like that as an _issue._ A conversation to have and not think about again until they give you another bullshit reason to hate them. You think this is fun?”

A breath. Nolan’s realized his point now.  “You’re mad… that a - a _tranny_ could be a better ballplayer than you are?”

That word stings. A few guys recoil, guys who don’t have any reason to. Even Nolan flinches as it slices from his mouth, a thick hostility hanging in the air. A challenge. He’s on a roll now, letting out months and weeks and a lifetime of anger.

“So you… you pretend we don’t exist. So it’s easier that way.” He spits the last few words with more hatred than he’s ever felt in his life.

Sure, he might have overreacted a little to the immediate situation. But he’s heard what Murphy’s been saying. He knows about people like him. And Nolan? He can’t listen to that anymore.

The clubhouse suddenly falls somehow quieter, and Nolan realizes what he’s said.

Like _this. We._

No one dares say anything. They don’t have to. He can feel what they’re all asking, dozens of eyes staring at him. Piercing. Someone finally breaks the heavy silence:

“You - you’re..?”

 Part of Nolan wants to say “I am,” to tell Daniel Murphy and everyone else “ _Fuck_ you, a transgender man is a better baseball player than you”, just to say “I am transgender” and have it be okay. He’s pretty sure it would be okay. Right?

“Nolan? You’re-?”

 Nolan opens his mouth to say something, to defend himself, and suddenly he can’t be here anymore. He doesn’t know where he would go, but it can’t be here. Someone calls his name again, someone he might recognize as a friend in a different place, but he can’t. He can’t.

Every ounce of his energy as he leaves the room is devoted to keeping his steps calm. One foot in front of the other. They know. Breathe in. Step. They know. Breathe out. Step. He will be okay. Step. Breathe in. He will be okay? He’s not sure. They know. Breathe-

He doesn’t start running until he’s out of sight.

The clubhouse has never felt so small. Nolan wants to yell, to scream, to cry out, but for once in his life the anger won’t come. It was there, in his shouting, and it’s close, bubbling under his skin and in the scars on his chest and behind his eyes in hot tears, but it has nowhere to go. He wants to explode. Needs to. He wants to hit something, to shout. They know. They know. They know they know they

No.

He has to get out of here.

Nolan finds himself in the locker room, of all places. The burn in his throat tells him he’s been shouting. Crying? He doesn’t cry. His voice is raw from the yelling. He’s sitting on the bench. Holding his face in his hands, he wonders how he got here. How fitting it is, in the locker room by himself. Again. Do they know that he wants to change with them? They probably think he’s just shy. He didn’t choose to be like this.

There’s a dull sting in his hands. No blood. Nothing’s broken. Probably gonna bruise, though. He’s okay. (He’s okay?) Mostly he just hopes he didn’t dent anyone’s locker or anything. There’s enough to explain to them already.

How is he going to explain this? They must have figured it out by now. He all but said it out loud: _I’m transgender._

God. He wishes he wasn’t … like this. No. He doesn’t wish he wasn’t like this. Not really. He wishes other people would just shut the fuck up and let him live. Nolan supposes that’s too much to ask. That would be too easy.

He wishes he wasn’t like this.

 

—-

 

The water is hot on his back. As hot as he could get it to be. Steam floats around his face, blurring his vision and reddening his skin until a layer is sloughed off and he is new. His shirt is folded on the bench he’d been sitting on. Nolan can feel every burning drop of water on his back. It hurts, but it’s okay. He’s okay. He thinks he’ll be okay.

He’s laughing. A dark smile at himself, at this whole situation. This is the first time he’s ever showered in a men’s locker room before.

(It’ll probably be the last too. No. He thinks he’ll be okay.)

Twenty minutes removed from the worst moment of his life, he is okay. Tentatively. He’s still a good ballplayer.

He swipes his hair out of his face, and he stands up. It was really stupid to wear shorts into the shower, he realizes now, but that was a different Nolan. (Maybe a little dramatic - he’s always been shortsighted when it comes to these things). He has an extra pair in his locker. It occurs to him that he doesn’t know where the towels are. He laughs - for real this time.

He finds them after finally shutting off the water, and throws one around his shoulders. It feels… natural. Normal. He changes quickly. That anxiety is still there, but he tries to fight it off.

_(They know.)_

Nolan dries his hair similarly briskly, hanging up the towel in his locker - he doesn’t have to, there’s a place for them, but it’s habit from showering at home or in a hotel room for so long.

His skin is still a bit raw from the hot water, a bit flushed and a bit warm. It feels good, though. He feels good. He’s had some time to think.

He still wants to punch Daniel Murphy square in the face, but he’s calmed down now.

Breathe in. Step. They know. Breathe out. Step. They know. Step and breathe and step and breathe and-

"Nolan!” Someone shouts as he enters the clubhouse, a note of concern and consoling in his voice. “Nolan! Hey man, you okay?” 

Nolan smiles despite himself. Finally, he can he feel himself getting out of his own head. When he speaks, his voice is quiet. Soft.

“I’m good.”

He thinks, this time, that he means it.


End file.
